CLARE BECOMES A GUARDIAN OF THE POOR.
Simpson, the bully of Clare’s childhood, went limping about on a
crutch, permanently lame, and full of hatred toward the innocent
occasion of the injury he had brought upon himself. Ever since his
recovery, he had, loitering about in idleness, watched the boy, to
waylay and catch him at unawares. Not until Clare went to the farm,
however, did he once succeed; for it was not difficult to escape him,
so long as he had not laid actual hold on his prey. But he grew more
and more cunning, and contrived at last, by creeping along hedges and
lying in ambush like a snake, to get his hands upon him. Then the poor
boy fared ill.
He went home bleeding and torn. The righteous churchwarden rebuked him
with severity for fighting. His mistress told him she was glad he had
met with some one to give him what he deserved, for she could hardly
keep her hands off him. He stared at her with wondering eyes, but said
nothing. She turned from them: the devil in her could not look in the
eyes of the angel in him. The next time he fell into the snare of his
enemy, he managed to conceal what had befallen him. After that he was
too wide awake to be caught.
There was in the village a child whom nobody heeded. He was far more
destitute than Clare, but had too much liberty. He lived with a
wretched old woman who called him her grandson: whether he was or not
nobody cared. She made her livelihood by letting beds, in a cottage, or
rather hovel, which seemed to be her own, to wayfarers, mostly tramps,
with or without trades. The child was thus thrown into the worst of
company, and learned many sorts of wickedness. He was already a thief,
and of no small proficiency in his art. Though village-bred, he could
pick a pocket more sensitive than a clown’s. Small and deft, he had
never stood before a magistrate. He was a miserable creature,
bare-footed and bare-legged; about eight years of age, but so stunted
that to the first glance he looked less than six--with keen ferret
eyes in red rims, red hair, pasty, freckled complexion, and a
generally unhealthy look; from which marks all, Clare conceived a
pitiful sympathy for him. Their acquaintance began thus:--
One day, during his father’s last illness, he happened to pass the
door of the grandmother’s hovel while the crone was administering to
Tommy a severe punishment with a piece of thick rope: she had been
sharp enough to catch him stealing from herself. Clare heard his
cries. The door being partly open, he ran in, and gave him such
assistance that they managed to bolt together from the hut. A
friendship, for long almost a silent one, was thus initiated between
them. Tommy--Clare never knew his other name, nor did the boy
himself--would off and on watch for a sight of him all day long, but
had the instinct, or experience, never to approach him if any one was
with him. He was careful not to compromise him. The instant the most
momentary _tête-à-tête_ was possible, he would rush up, offer him
something he had found or stolen, and hurry away again. That he was a
thief Clare had not the remotest suspicion. He had never offered him
anything to suggest theft.
By and by it came to the knowledge of Clare’s enemy that there was a
friendship between them, and the discovery wrought direness for
both. One day Simpson saw Clare coming, and Tommy watching him. He
laid hold of Tommy, and began cuffing him and pulling his hair, to
make him scream, thinking thus to get hold of Clare. But
notwithstanding the lesson he had received, the rascal had not yet any
adequate notion of the boy’s capacity for action where another was
concerned. He flew to the rescue, caught up the crutch Simpson had
dropped, and laid it across his back with vigour. The fellow let Tommy
go and turned on Clare, who went backward, brandishing the crutch.
“Run, Tommy,” he cried.
Tommy retreated a few steps.
“Run yourself,” he counselled, having reached a safe distance. “Take
his third leg with you.”
Clare saw the advice was good, and ran. But the next moment reflection
showed him the helplessness of his enemy. He turned, and saw him
hobbling after him in such evident pain and discomfiture, that he went
to meet him, and politely gave him his crutch. He might have thrown it
to him and gone on, but he had a horror of rudeness, and handed it to
him with a bow. Just as he regained his perpendicular, the crutch
descended on his head, and laid him flat on the ground. There the
tyrant belaboured him. Tommy stood and regarded the proceeding.
“The cove’s older an’ bigger an’ pluckier than me,” he said to
himself; “but he’s an ass. He’ll come to grief unless he’s looked
after. He’ll be hanged else. He don’t know how to dodge. I’ll have to
take him in charge!”
When he saw Clare free, an event to which he had contributed nothing,
he turned and ran home.
Simpson redoubled now his persecution of Clare, and persecuted Tommy
because of Clare. He lurked for Tommy now, and when he caught him,
tormented him with choice tortures. In a word, he made his life
miserable. After every such mischance Tommy would hurry to the farm,
and lie about in the hope of a sight of Clare, or possibly a chance of
speaking to him. His repute was so bad that he dared not show himself.
Hot tears would come into Clare’s eyes as he listened to the not
always unembellished tale of Tommy’s sufferings at the hands of
Simpson; but he never thought of revenge, only of protection or escape
for the boy. It comforted him to believe that he was growing, and
would soon be a match for the oppressor.
Whether at this time he felt any great interest in life, or recognized
any personal advantage in growing, I doubt. But he had the friendship
of the animals; and it is not surprising that creatures their maker
thinks worth making and keeping alive, should yield consolation to one
that understands them, or even fill with a mild joy the pauses of
labour in an irksome life.
Then each new day was an old friend to the boy. Each time the sun
rose, new hope rose with him in his heart. He came every morning fresh
from home, with a fresh promise. The boy read the promise in his great
shining, and believed it; gazed and rejoiced, and turned to his work.
But the hour arrived when his mistress could bear his presence no
longer. Some petty loss, I imagine, had befallen her. Nothing touched
her like the loss of money--the love of which is as dread a passion as
the love of drink, and more ruinous to the finer elements of the
nature. It was like the tearing out of her heart to Mrs. Goodenough to
lose a shilling. Her self-command forsook her, perhaps, in some such
moment of vexation; anyhow, she opened the sluices of her hate, and
overwhelmed him with it in the presence of her husband.
The farmer knew she was unfair, knew the orphan a good boy and a
diligent, knew there was nothing against him but the antipathy of his
wife. But, annoyed with her injustice, he was powerless to change her
heart. Since the boy came to live with them, he had had no pleasure in
his wife’s society. She had always been moody and dissatisfied, but
since then had been unbearable. Constantly irritated with and by her
because of Clare, he had begun to regard him as the destroyer of his
peace, and to feel a grudge against him. He sat smouldering with
bodiless rage, and said nothing.
Clare too was silent,--for what could he say? Where is the wisdom that
can answer hatred? He carried to his friend Jonathan a heart heavy and
perplexed.
“Why does she hate me so, Jonathan?” he murmured.
The big horse kissed his head all over, but made him no other answer.